At the time I’d assumed the King had been arguing simply for the enjoyment of it – he always did take perverse pleasure in making me lose my temper – but now, standing there in Aramor’s courtroom with everyone awaiting my answer, I realised it was because even he had never been entirely sure of the answer to this simple question: what right does any country have to exist?
By what rights are men and women subjugated, controlled by a government hundreds of miles away? If some form of social order is required, then why can’t any village or town simply declare itself a sovereign nation? A thousand years ago there had been no ‘Tristia’: it had been nothing more than a collection of disparate city-states, each ruling themselves as they pleased until they evolved into the nine Duchies, then ruled by Princes.
Was ‘Tristia’ such a great idea that it deserved the sacrifice of what few Greatcoats, Bardatti and others we had left, in a futile attempt to save it one last time?
More importantly, which magistrate would ever be so arrogant as to believe him-or herself qualified to make such a decision?
Me, apparently.
‘I’ll hear evidence,’ I said.
The young Knight, Sir Elizar, stepped forward. ‘The Honori have failed,’ he admitted. ‘The great Orders of Knighthood have faded from memory, leaving behind only men in armour who wield their weapons in service of whichever Lord pays for their fealty.’ He hung his head, dark hair falling over his eyes. ‘And even in this we failed. More than half of my brethren sided with Shuran in his bid to take the country. And then many sought redemption by siding with the Church and the Blacksmith’s God against the Crown. The rest – well, most of them – have abandoned their Lords and gone to seek whatever fortune a good set of armour and a strong blade can win for them.’
‘What would you have me do then, Sir Elizar?’ I asked.
The young man pushed his shoulders back and stood up straight. ‘This nation is broken, First Cantor. There is nothing left for us to defend but its citizens. Let us turn our efforts to helping those who can flee across the water or the desert—’
‘And leave the rest to die at the hands of the Avareans?’
Gwyn stepped forward. ‘My people are . . . hard,’ the young -Rangieri said, ‘but they are not the barbarians you believe them to be.’ He turned to the others. ‘Listen to me, all of you: the Avarean way of war is not like your own. It is our religion, and rokhan the only measure; it is sacred to us. When the horde comes, they will offer you the chance to kneel, and in so doing, you will be branded as slaves. My people are not unkind to those they conquer, though it will be a difficult life.’
‘Slavery has no place in Tristia,’ Valiana said forcefully, ‘and nor will it so long as I am Realm’s Protector!’
‘I suspect they fired you from that job, sweetheart,’ Brasti pointed out. ‘Probably about two seconds after the crown was plonked onto Filian’s head.’
‘Then let them keep the title – it won’t stop me from fighting.’
‘Forgive me, Lady,’ Gwyn said, ‘but you know nothing of war.’ He shook his head as though struggling to find the words to explain. ‘Do none of you understand? You talk about “battle” as if it were a simple matter of placing pieces on a board, some sort of game to be won or lost. To an Avarean, the way a person fights is the measure of their worth. Courage in war, skill in battle, these are the only meaningful Gods we follow.’ He turned back to me. ‘If an enemy army fights bravely, cleverly, if they impress the horde with their rokhan, then the horde will look upon the conquered as brothers and sisters. This is how Avares grew from a small nation to one which encompasses the entire north and west of this continent.’
‘What happens if they aren’t so impressed?’ Brasti asked.
‘Then you will wish you had become slaves.’ Gwyn’s eyes looked haunted. ‘We have a word, kujandis . . .’ He was clearly struggling to translate it. Eventually, he said, ‘It means a cowardly opponent, one who is less than an animal. The only use for kujandis is for sport: it is no crime to kill one, or to slaughter them all.’
His words hung in the air a while before he asked me, ‘Do you believe your people will fight bravely, First Cantor? Do you believe they will win rokhan in the face of a hundred warbands?’
A strange question – a foolish question, really, when I was surrounded by the bravest people I’d ever known. But I knew full well they were the exception that proved the rule. ‘Not especially,’ I replied.
‘Then tell your King to submit, quickly, without hesitation or attempt at negotiation. The Avarean horde will reward subservience with mercy. Perhaps then, one day, Tristian blood and Avarean will be so intermixed that we shall truly be one people.’
I saw a shadow cross Nehra’s face. Although she remained silent, I knew what she was thinking: One people. What of our art, our language, our stories? They would be gone; we would all be singing ‘Seven for a Thousand’ from now on.
I looked at Quentis Maren, Inquisitor-turned-Greatcoat. ‘Well, what about you? I would think the Cogneri would be loath to let the worshippers of foreign Gods take over.’
His expression was thoughtful, serious. ‘You know I am no longer one of the Cogneri, Falcio.’ He fingered the trim of his coat. ‘The Duchess of Hervor bade me wear this again to stand as representative of my old Order, but I am uncomfortable speaking on their behalf.’
‘Well, you’re the only Inquisitor we have,’ I said, ‘not to mention the only Cogneri whose judgement I would trust. Speak.’
‘I can’t advise you on this, First Cantor. I can’t imagine how one is supposed to decide the fate of a country – especially when the Venerati – who are supposed to be the religious leaders of this country – are every bit as corrupt as its nobility. Or worse. I see no path to redeem them.’
‘I take it you think the same?’ I asked Darriana, who was leaning back against the wall, arms folded across her chest.
‘I don’t give a shit – and I’ll tell you something else: the farmers and craftspeople and labourers? They don’t give a shit, either. They want food and roads and a chance to survive the next winter. Their local Lords practically treat them like slaves now, so what difference will it make if the guy shouting orders at them does it in Avarean or Tristian?’
The women in carpenter’s clothes stepped forward, her fists clenched in anger. ‘You do not—’ She stopped abruptly and began to step back, until Ethalia walked to her and put an arm around her shoulders.
‘This is your country as much as theirs, Lyssande,’ she said. Her eyes went to me. ‘Do not let this nonsense convince you otherwise.’
With Ethalia beside her, Lyssande found the confidence to speak. ‘First Cantor, do you . . . ?’ Again she hesitated.
‘Go on,’ I said, in as kindly a fashion as I could manage.
‘Do you . . . do you have children, First Cantor?’